MOSHE BENARROCH
Change
~~~~~~
No matter what I do or where I go
merchants keep giving me
too much change
I give them a twenty
and they give me change
for a fifty
The best one was in the
Mahane Yehuda market
gave him twenty
and he gave me change for a hundred
I told him
I gave you twenty
and he shouted at me
You are in the clouds
you gave me a hundred
I discussed again
until he noticed it was the man near me
who gave him the one hundred bill.
The big chains always make mistakes
and forget to debit for this or that
always in my favor
It's like of the whole world
wants to give me money
and I just don't know what to
do with it.
I made a deal with God
a few years ago
and told him
"This is it!
until the end of this year
I return the money
if they give me too much,
from then on
I feel free to keep it."
The year ended and things got somehwhat better
for a few months
but then it started again.
I divided the world into two camps
the small merchant
and the big sharks
I keep the money of the big ones
but my god I am sorry
I can't live with the money of the small ones.
I go into Zcharya's yemenite restaurant
in Tel Aviv,
One of the best and cheapest restaurants in the world
where you eat a meal for less than 30 sheqels (6 $)
and he keeps giving me too much change
his wife always forgets to count something in my bill
and they are always fighting with their son
and I say to Zcharya
who has come all the way
from Zan'a in Yemen
and should be given the Israel prize:
" Aiwa Zcharya
you are cheaper than anybody else
your food is better than the others
and still
you keep making mistakes in my bills
and always give me 10 sheqels
more change than you should.
I hope you don't do this too often
and it's only with me."
And he says to me:
"You are a saint!
a saint!..."
and I feel
a round cloud
above my head.
JANET I. BUCK
The Waiting Room
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I pull at my husband's arm
as if that tug will tether
a strand of my hair to a braid.
All eyes shift to us and lock.
He strikes me as walls
that bodies were born to lean against.
An ocean of braces, crutches, and casts.
Unwelcome props in a show that will close.
Those rolling chairs.
I'd walk a mile just to clip
the sight of those wheels
in a photo tarring my face.
My skin has slipped
like puffs of white alyssum seeds
succumbing to the passing spring.
Wrinkles write maps under my eyes.
I stare at a book, a tour of 9/11's hell
that makes my snake pit
seem like pillows
propped against a paradise.
For a moment of grief,
the words of a worser pain
act like oblong pills.
All of us here -- the brittle plate.
It's a train wreck of twisted knees,
injuries crying for hope's reverse.
Pain is a callus to sand,
but quitting the dance
is out of the question of will.
The healthy are taking notes.
As if their sentence is next on a page
that will turn to their trials.
Life is a cold church
but we pray as hair rises on arms
to blanket the thrust of the chill.
Lipstick is a little game
I've forgotten to add to my purse.
JANET I. BUCK
The Examining Room
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the trail of the white med coat,
a student follows close. Head dipped,
courtesy plain, the curious bubbling froth.
And the x-rays show pipes, screws,
weird shapes, plastic balls, lumps
and valleys that should be bones
like diagrams in posters
nailed to the gloom of walls gone gray.
A bit of the dove's wing ivory
pitched in for a lie
in retort to gaining age.
This child has cherub cheeks.
Chipmunk round. Is he gathering
nuts of savior plans? I laugh
at such audacity. :Where are your
crutches? Your cane? A walker?"
"All in the closet," I say,
for the time when the crescent
slides to the tip of the cliff.
The thirteenth commandment,
a smile pasted firmly in place.
The doc pats my steel shoulder.
Its literal pipe tucked
beneath these trials of flesh
marked by an ocean of scars,
the crusts of the going bread.
A nurse's arms grow weary
from the weight of my chart.
Too many notes
on seasons doing their thing.
A little bad luck mixed in.
I hurry to leave. Live on.
Counting on a butterfly
to burst in bolts of will
from the harbors of ancient cocoon.
JANET I. BUCK
Final Picnics
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I want to go!" was all you said,
as if you were slamming a book.
So I laid out your hat,
a tube of pink lipstick and blush
replacing the color
drained from my cheeks.
Death struck me then
as pottery with handles loose.
To you it snapped like fingernails --
a casualty of brushing up
against the hardness of a life.
"You don't need eyes to see a forest.
The picture stays in your lungs."
I packed a red checked tablecloth
pretending the dice weren't close.
At the edge of a grave,
even the desert looks green.
Country roads spit gravel back
like bacon cooking in a pan.
You needed the custard of clouds
while I busied my triggers
shooting at hail.
The end was soft alyssum grains
finding the gust of a faithful breeze.
Sweat on your brow
could have been streams,
could have been rain licking the moss.
A stone divided by will
is still a stone in reckoning.
Innocence was telling me
to drive around the avalanche.
JANET I. BUCK
Upon the Threads of Slivered Glass
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The attack was intended to break our spirit.
It has utterly failed."
Rudolph Giuliani
I've bought a dozen books by now --
opened them like dry cocoons.
Binding broken by the pull
of sadness looking for escape.
The benediction of a poem
is pigeon-droppings on a square.
I need to wear the massive grave
as padlocks on my liberties.
Aflame with fear that I'll forget,
slip on sandals, comb a beach,
without my eye on acres of rubble and ash.
The art of living on requires
the blending of survival moves,
waltzes of remembrance
upon the threads of slivered glass.
As freedom plays its orphaned song,
an orchestra is warming up.
A monarch tarries on the lips
of crimson tulips in the spring
as I recall the vapor trails
of heroes twisting into dust.
I can't forget these puppets of terror
grafted their faces with skin of our own.
Days of Armageddon gloom,
eclipsing suns, calling matches
to our candles quivering in brutal wind.
Someone shaves a bright green lawn,
paints the beaten, leaning blades
blood red, moon white, navy blue.
Taking back the dawn is hard --
pasta slipping from a spoon.
For lack of fitting syllables,
a brick just forms because it does,
because the sand is wetted by unspeakables.
Words must be that olive oil
which floats above this vinegar.
JANET I. BUCK
Chore of Mace
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I climbed the reticent stairs.
Each step delivered a sigh and a wheeze.
Every other bouncing plank
ordered me to turn around.
The air was mace not simple dust.
My stride was clogging syrup slow.
Castaways of solid silver
turned a shade of black espresso
lingering in cobweb sheets.
I lit a peg in candelabrums,
marched my mission,
ducking from the moonlit beams
as if their twisted wood were steel
at temperatures that melted soul,
as if their ribs would come alive.
I knew my thighs would never match
ruts of music in these streets.
Tiny triumphs played their songs in what I found:
your husband's favorite Sunday tie
beside your weathered apron strings.
A pile of photos curled in heat
like bygone bacon no one ate.
All bookmarks in a manuscript
I wanted back for tissue in the trying years.
Each box was a beached whale
too heavy to lift, too precious to not.
A story of razoring tides.
Goliaths of the rinds you earned,
lemons now a memory.
I desired a pedestal,
a palimpsest that spat on grief.
So this is how it really feels
to handle sonnets in the raw,
then emerge as lifeless prose --
aware the rhyme and ligature
float in buckets of a grave.
JANET I. BUCK
Hospice
~~~~~~~
Rolling in by wheelchair,
rolling out by body bag.
No orgies of tulips
abide a sidewalk of stone.
Here is an earth where
visage, echo, mirror, and skin
reflect gray pelts of flat raccoons.
Here is where the road grows short.
Curious eyes of lark and crow
questioning this nark of death
who spells out what is left of life --
sadness bolding thin italics,
underlining clots and ink
that make a letter into words.
Rows of heads like mothballs
on a closet floor -- sun bears down
as if it is pouring a beer in a pub
and no one is ready to sip on the truth.
Hands are all feathers and wings,
temporal pillows at best.
Touch is moats with sacred juice;
zippers catch flesh of a thumb.
All the nurses ever know --
lightening will split the cedar fence.
Then, by proxy, strike
the eyebrows of a child who thought
the cricket's song and clef --
perennial music, permanent score.
The dinghy goes pop on slivers of piers
but the sea just stays --
a jellyfish beside the sting.
Indigo fluid just smiles --
broad and full of licorice teeth.
Milk becomes the ash it was,
mounds of whipping cream white
dissolving in cups of the bitterest black.
Foam was borrowed anyway.
JANET I. BUCK
Tea Leaves
~~~~~~~~~~
Captions under CNN read
tea leaves of blood, a crapshoot
of corpses and coffins of dust.
I need you back to tell me
that hope can get ripe
despite how hard this world seems.
Words of your eyes, a brief siesta
from hammering storms.
Repeat your chant,
which carried us through wicked times,
called thunderheads a gravy boat.
I'm six again, drawing a picture
with crayons that break
because I am pushing too hard,
playing the muscle against
the bone of my death.
As surf beats its lace
against the broom of a shore,
I recognize I think too much,
insist that the moon could be square.
I'm watching as you sip black coffee,
expecting the sugar and cream
to come from the plank of your tongue,
in a rush to go nowhere but here.
Glass of an August lake
works its way toward dry.
You would consider what needles
stayed green on the trees
born of heavenly mint.
I'd listen as you named the birds
cradled in a fallen log.
Their songs, you said,
are perceptible even in tin rain.
How Whitmanesque - to know
you are "solid and sound," to walk
with the "tender and growing night,"
to call the darkness a star --
rumba on grass as if it is dill
and a step will release perfume.
WARD KELLEY
The Highway of Skin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The highway of skin, the golden leg of life
we hurtle downward, never seeing the true
horizon, never seeing farther than the skin
in front of our hands, the skin we turn into
a prayer, the highway now a church whose
speed is in its truth. We think we cannot live
without skin, but it is speed that has us locked
onto the steering wheel, the speed of time,
a lust that can only drive itself faster; skin
in fact slows it all down. For an interlude it
will make time flow beyond slowly, but
we speed back up, indeed pray for speed
to lift ourselves off the highway of skin, into
the air of time, so we can fly right past our
death -- nice if we don't know it happened
until we realize it is a highway of naked ice.
WARD KELLEY
Parts of the Soul
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There are parts of bodies that compel
our attention, just as there are parts
of souls more attuned to our carnal
imagination; in both cases intercourse
lies at the bottom of such great interest.
I have never been with a woman who
was completely at ease with her body,
who ever thought her beauty sufficient;
yet I do not know a woman who lacks
faith in the righteousness of her own soul.
I think I can conclude the source of my
lusts are spiritual. I always believed a new
woman held all the secrets of the universe
in her body; true, true, but they are within
her soul that cannot be reached by my hands.
The parts of her spirit that lured me to her
body flash then hide, never to resurface,
and always I am left with the toes or earlobes
of the soul, parts for which I have little interest.
The breasts of her soul . . . this is what I wanted.
WARD KELLEY
They Will Alight
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I believe in the words, forthrightly, and worship
the ability in us to create the word; and I believe,
more, in the poem, the unity of words, and how
they create the mirage that is this art where truth
will shimmer in the distance yet disappear under
the grasp of hands who wish to possess it. As it
should, for truth cannot be possessed for long, only
revered, just as wild animals lose their truth once
tamed. And now I must admit, that even more than
the poem, I adore the process of the poem, how these
reverse prayers will come in, if unbidden properly,
and how the pounding of the poem will free the spirit
to swirl in the gyre of the words, only able to capture
the words by not taking possession . . . they will alight
on the page themselves, nearly unnoticed in the pounding.
RITA STILLI
Eclissi di Luna
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Notturno incanto
che del giorno il nulla
annulla.
Stregato il pensiero
la dea d'opale del tutto
s’appropria.
Se bisogna c'era
della verità rinnegata
a costo di spergiuro
alibi sarei stata.
Ma ahimè la giuria
al rogo l'ha condannata
e il suo velo di luce
la fiamma alimenta.
Strega sublime e testarda.
Mio il tormento e mia
la bestemmia
che per timore d'esser fraintesa
un sogno ho taciuto.
Dietro un cristallo inventato
ti guardo morire
dalle Muse contesa.
Il silenzio crepita e
in una favilla di buio
precipita.
(notte 9 gennaio 2001)
RITA STILLI
Furtivamente
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Senza fine nell'ignoto
l’antica strada
sempre si rinnova al cammino
e nell'eco dei perduti passi
si trascina.
Nel buio rinviato
di notti dal ricordo
corrotte
s’inoltra il rimpianto
- scorciatoia per il domani -
il respiro per primo
il traguardo afferra.
RITA STILLI
Essenziale
~~~~~~~~~~
Presagi di mimosa arrischia
il profeta che il mondo
con parole di gelo da sempre
incanta.
Non teme d’essere sconfessato
e l'unanime disprezzo
sdegna.
Dei germogli l'albore
nell'attesa non indugia
e di quell'inebriante essenza
si compiace.
Fraintesa messaggera del presente
quale sublime effimera
assenza!
RITA STILLI
Pagliaccio di cuori
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tue le parole, il racconto di una vita
recitata.
Del tuo Teatro, il domatore
anche una lacrima
si pagava.
Mio il silenzio, la storia di una vita
ad un Circo celeste
consacrata.
Da Pagliaccio di cuori
- la tua carta vincente -
mi vestivi.
Alla soglia della fine, solo alla fine,
mi giocavi.
E d’un altro petalo di sorriso
mi hai sfogliato.
Ma dietro un sipario di ghiaccio
rido canto e danzo.
Vestita da sera
come si conviene al tramonto di
un Pagliaccio di fiori
appassiti.
RITA STILLI
Quella notte
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Noi - stelle accaldate - la rosa notte
sul letto di maggio
spogliammo.
Mentre lo scarlatto nostro ansimare
- da se stesso inseguito -
fuggiva
un cielo spinato
la nostra passione
al di là dall'alba
tratteneva.
Prigionieri al sogno
ci consegnammo.
E liberi ci rese - infine - il nostro ribelle
pianto.
(14 maggio 2001)
RITA STILLI
Il mio gioco
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Quando all'Alba a nascondino
con gli Angeli giocavo
invincibile divenni
per la Sera
ché le celesti assenze
la mia ombra
all'Invisibile affidarono.
RITA STILLI
Repliche
~~~~~~~~
E insolenti pensieri
la mente sfoggia
sullo sfondo
della mia stagione
senza canto.
Cala il sipario sulla replica
del silenzio
fra intervalli di porpora
e di dissenso.
Finalmente sulla scena
senza senso
mi rappresento.
RITA STILLI
A chiunque
~~~~~~~~~~
Parlatemi di me
e il silenzio forgiate
nel candore.
Dal mio prato cogliete
quelle parole
e regalatemi un fascio
di dolore.
Lasciatemi a me stessa
uguale
che non possa
accettare.
E poi fingete che
io sia nata.
E infine lasciatemi
morire.
RITA STILLI
Diluvio bianco
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Si esaurisce sulle sponde
della sera
quella che scambiai
per un'ondata
di primavera.
Plenilunio di neve
sui miei arsi vascelli
arsi
e tanto mi bastava
ché della deriva
avevo fatto la mia
casa.
E poi la verità
di un randagio dopo
che - inesorabile -
al candore
le sue catene
scioglie.
RITA STILLI
Recital
~~~~~~~
E insolenti pensieri
la mente sfoggia
nascosta dietro la quinta
di quella stagione
che - privata del suo canto -
all'aprirsi del sipario
alla platea s’inchina
e l'ultimo inganno
rappresenta.
RITA STILLI
Alato novembre
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Il vostro canto ascolto
e uno sparo d'invidia
al silenzio sorda
mi rende.
Inutile trascorre il suicida
istante
che prezioso fa il seguente.
Ascolto il vostro canto
e una pausa di vita
al volo
al vostro volo appesa
mi prendo.
Il vostro canto si fa foglia
il vostro grido la nebbia
impegna a dissolversi
nel nulla
che la morte annulla.
RITA STILLI
Il giorno dopo
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sublime l'errore
si rinnova
e del dopo il ricordo
contempla
all'alba di un vecchio
stupore che in favore
del primogenito rimpianto
ha abdicato.
Suddita del principio
alla fine non m'inchino
e cittadina mi proclamo
dell'infinito!
(12 dicembre 2001)
E.J. MCFALL
The Case of the Zealot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Play in One Act
Characters:
ALBERT : A Frenchman in his late 40s. A bout with TB in his youth limits
his activities. He is an optimist with faith in man's ability to redeem
himself.
FYODOR: A Russian, age 60. Years of gambling, debt and epilepsy have left
him in poor health. He is a devout Eastern Orthodox Christian who is
familiar with man's darker side.
SOREN: A Danish man in his early 30s. He suffers from fatigue and depression,
but he remains hopeful and faithful to his God.
FRIEDRICH: A German in his 50s. His eyesight is poor and he suffers from
severe migraine headaches. He is either a nihilist philosopher or a madman.
JEAN-Paul: A Frenchman in his 70s. He has poor vision and a short temper.
He is a pessimist who has a practiced aura of despair and existential
angst.
JUDAS: A Judean in his 30s. He is haunted by guilt and remorse.
Setting:
A long table with 5 chairs is at center stage. A smaller table w/chair is
isolated a few feet away. The larger table is set up for a meeting - water
glasses, file folders, etc.
Time:
There is a feeling of timelessness. Fyodor, Soren and Friedrich are dressed
in clothes from the 19th century while Albert and Jean-Paul are dressed in
clothes from the later half of the 20th century. Judas wears simple clothes
from early Christian days. The meeting room itself has no specific period
feel.
JUDAS sits at the small table as lights come up on stage.
ALBERT enters, checks his watch:
Morning, Jude. Hope you haven’t been waiting long.
JUDAS shakes his head.
ALBERT (Busily straightening up the papers on the table.):
The others should be here before long. Care for a glass of water?
Fraid I don't have anything stronger. (Laughs.) We'd never get through the
agenda if we gave this group alcohol.
JUDE:
There's no need to concern yourself with my welfare. I'm required to be
here. I expect nothing from this court.
ALBERT:
I wouldn't call us a court. More like a motley collection of malcontents.
JUDAS:
As you say.
ALBERT:
There's nothing to worry about, Jude. You know the routine better than
anyone - once every hundred years...
JUDAS:
Yes. I have been here many times. I shall be here many more.
ALBERT:
Well, confidentially, I'd say you have good reason to hope.
JUDAS shakes his head.
ALBERT:
Really, I think you can count on the committee's objectivity this time.
SOREN hurries in:
My apologies. I was engrossed in a book and nearly forgot what day it is.
ALBERT:
As you see, you are not alone.
SOREN takes a seat at the far right of the table, addresses JUDE:
Please don't interpret my tardiness as a lack of seriousness on my part. I
have spent hours in meditation on this matter. You may be assured I will
render a fair verdict.
JUDAS:
I have never questioned the fairness of the previous verdicts. I accept my
fate.
JEAN-PAUL (as he enters):
I create my fate.
ALBERT:
Ah, Jean-Paul. A dramatic entrance, as usual.
JEAN-PAUL takes a seat at the far left of the table:
Ah, Albert. How fitting that you are chosen as moderator. The center is the
perfect position for the man with no opinion of his own.
ALBERT:
This case is not about us, Jean-Paul.
JEAN-PAUL (glances at JUDAS):
There are similarities.
ALBERT:
Another day, Jean-Paul. We'll meet at the Eternal Cafe and talk about our
differences.
JEAN-PAUL:
Not while I am master of my own destiny.
ALBERT:
Then there is nothing for us to do but maintain a civil silence.
JEAN-PAUL:
Pity you couldn’t do that while you were still alive.
ALBERT:
At least I never spread lies about you after death had left you helpless to
defend yourself.
JEAN-PAUL:
Only because fate never gave you the chance.
SOREN:
Gentlemen, please. Let us rise above our personal concerns. We have
important decisions before us today.
ALBERT:
Of course. You're right. (Consults a packet of papers.) We have a full
docket and we're already late.
SOREN:
Perhaps we should send for Fyodor and Friedrich.
Fyodor enters.
SOREN:
Ah, Fyodor Mikhaylovich. It’s good to see you. I've saved you a place next
to me.
FYODOR (moves slowly towards the right side of the table.):
I'm an old man. Am I to crawl over you to my seat?
SOREN (quickly slides over a chair):
My apologies, sir. Please take the aisle seat.
FYODOR grumbles as he sits, glances at JUDAS:
So that is what all the bother is about. Not what I expected.
JEAN-PAUL:
Would you prefer he had horns and cloven feet?
FYODOR:
One should appear as one is.
JEAN-PAUL:
At least he doesn’t have the reek of hypocrisy about him.
FYODOR:
Or the stench of nihilist debauchery.
SOREN:
Please, gentleman.
ALBERT:
Let us remember why we’re here. We’re sworn to give Jude a fair hearing.
FYODOR:
Fair? With his friend as moderator?
ALBERT:
I try to understand everyone's point of view, but Jude...Judas...will get
no special treatment while I'm moderator.
JEAN-PAUL:
Don't worry, Fyodor. Albert isn't one to compromise himself for something
as absurd as friendship.
ALBERT:
Jean-Paul.
SOREN:
Perhaps I should go for Friedrich?
ALBERT (distracted):
Yes, that might be best.
FYODOR:
You won't have far to look. He's kneeling out back, holding his head and
raving about flogging horses.
JEAN-PAUL:
And you walked past? Very Christian of you.
FYODOR:
The man had no use for Christians while he lived. Why should he expect
kindness now?
SOREN:
I'll find him. (Hurries offstage.)
ALBERT:
Perhaps we could use this time to silently read over the agenda. We have
quite a few cases...
JEAN-PAUL:
Your little joke lacks humor, Albert.
ALBERT:
Joke? What joke? I didn't...
JEAN-PAUL:
You know I can't see well enough to read, but you can't resist the chance
to humiliate me.
ALBERT:
I didn't realize your eyesight had become that bad. I didn't keep track of
your affairs once I died.
JEAN-PAUL humphs.
ALBERT:
I'll read the cases aloud for you. (Quickly.) It's my job as moderator,
anyway.
JEAN-PAUL:
Then since it's just your job ---there's no need for me to thank you.
SOREN enters, assists FRIEDRICH to the left side of the table.
FRIEDRICH:
The cruelty. Evil loosed in the world.
SOREN:
Yes, I know. But it's through our suffering that we find enlightenment.
FRIEDRICH:
But an animal. A dumb, innocent animal. Such cruelty.
JEAN-PAUL:
The only abused animals here are in your head, Friedrich.
FYODOR:
They have always been in his head.
SOREN:
Come, Friedrich. Take a seat. (SOREN gestures for JEAN-PAUL to give his
seat to FRIEDRICH. JEAN-PAUL ignores him. SOREN helps FRIEDRICH around
JEAN-PAUL to a vacant chair.) There. You'll feel better in a moment.
FRIEDRICH:
Thank you. You are most kind.
FYODOR:
Thanks for a Christian? (Dramatically looks at his feet.) Do I feel
Siberian winds coming from the Pit?
ALBERT:
Alright, if we're all ready.(Looks at his watch, takes his seat between
Friedrich and Soren.) This session of the Purgatorial Review Board is now
in order. The first petitioner is Judas Iscariot, condemned for betrayal
and self-murder. Per rules of order, the petitioner speaks first and then
is questioned alternately by members of the right and left sides of the
panel. Are there any questions to this point?
JEAN-PAUL:
Just get on with it. No one's judging your performance for another Nobel.
ALBERT:
Your comment is out of order. (Turns to JUDAS.) The petitioner may now
address the board.
JUDAS:
I have nothing to say. I am guilty of my crime and deserve my punishment.
FYODOR:
Well, that was easy. Next case.
ALBERT:
Your comment is out of order. (To JUDAS.) Your have the right to present
your case. There is no time limit.
JUDAS:
I have no case.
ALBERT:
Very well. Questioning will commence from the left first. Friedrich, are
you well enough?
FRIEDRICH:
Yah. It was merely one of my demon headaches. (Collects himself.) The
petitioner was one of the founding Christians?
JUDAS:
I was a Jewish zealot. I wanted to free my people from the tyranny of
Roman rule.
FRIEDRICH:
But you conspired with others to create a myth to be used to control the
uneducated herd?
ALBERT:
The petitioner's religion is not on trial here.
JUDAS:
It's all right. (Pause.) I followed a gentle man who loved everyone, even
criminals and harlots. He even loved the Romans. (Pause.) I didn't
understand. I thought He'd come to raise an army to free our people. I
thought He was the Messiah. I didn't realize what He planned to do until
it was too late. Far too late.
FRIEDRICH:
You considered yourself the Ubermensch? You believed yourself beyond the
morality of the masses?
JUDAS:
I considered myself His friend. (Brokenly.) He was causing trouble,
stirring up the rabble. It was only a matter of time before He drew the
Romans down on all of us. I thought I could save Him by stopping Him. I
didn't know...I didn't want...
FRIEDRICH:
The situation is clear to me. I have no further questions.
ALBERT:
Very well. Fyodor your questions.
FYODOR:
Does the petitioner admit to betraying Our Lord and Savior and sending Him
to His death for a handful of gold pieces?
JUDAS:
I betrayed my friend, but it wasn't for the money. I...
FYODOR:
You betrayed Him with a kiss and watched as He was flogged and crucified?
JUDAS:
They said they would stop Him. They didn't say how.
FYODOR:
He admits to the crime. Let him endure his punishment.
ALBERT:
Please withhold your judgement until it's time to vote. Jean-Paul your
questions.
JEAN-PAUL:
Does the petitioner believe that he was predestined to play the role of
Judas Goat - so to speak - as part of a Grand Plan?
JUDAS:
I blame no one but myself.
JEAN-PAUL:
And if you were paroled? What would you do if you were sent Above?
JUDAS shakes his head emphatically.
I could never go there. I could never see Him again. This is where I
belong.
JEAN-PAUL:
It's common knowledge that you've been forgiven. You have been for several
centuries.
JUDAS:
Yes. He met me Himself, at the Gate. He stretched out His arms to me, His
hands bleeding from their nails..(Breaks off with a sob.) No. Forgiveness
isn't possible. Not for what I've done. I loved Him and I killed Him. I
should have been sent to the fires of Hell.
JEAN-PAUL:
But you were, for Hell is truly other people. (Pauses for dramatic effect.
His quote is unappreciated.) I have no further questions.
ALBERT:
Then we more on to Soron.
SORON:
First I must say that it is not our role to judge this man. That job
belongs to One greater than us. (Looks upward briefly.) But I have prayed
on this matter and I would like to know if the petitioner truly regrets
his action.
JUDAS:
Yes, for all the good that may do now.
SORON:
And has the petitioner taken the leap of faith necessary to change his
despair into hope?
JUDAS:
Hope? What hope can there be for me? I am the destroyer of love. What do
I have to hope for?
SORON:
Peace and contentment through union with the Divine.
JUDAS:
No. That can never be. Not for me.
SORON:
You must fight your despair, Judas. It's the sickness unto death --and
beyond.
ALBERT:
Any more questions, Soron?
SORON:
No. As I say, this is not a matter for our judgement. We can only tend to
our own souls.
FYODOR:
That is creeping nihilism. There are right and wrong actions. We have a
responsibility to judge other's behavior. It is the only way to keep the
evil within at bay.
ALBERT:
Since none of us are guiltless, I believe we must be moderate in our
judgement of others, -- (hastily as Fyodor begins to object) -- but it's
not my place to tell you how to vote. I'm only here to break a tie. (To
JUDAS). You are not required to remain while we vote, though you may if
you wish.
JUDAS:
I know what the vote is. I've been here too many times to count.
ALBERT:
Those were different Boards, with different members. We are a unique
entity and should be treated as such.
JUDAS:
As you wish. I choose to stay.
ALBERT:
Good. Let us begin with Friedrich.
FRIEDRICH:
He followed his own will to power, as is required of the man who wishes to
rise above the herd. It is only fitting that this stale, corpse of a
religion be opposed by one of its first disciples. I vote yes to parole.
JUDAS (shocked):
No!
ALBERT:
Fyodor?
FYODOR:
When the wall between good and evil falls, we are all abandoned to chaos.
I vote no to parole.
ALBERT (ticks off the votes on a pad of paper):
Jean-Paul?
JEAN-PAUL:
We can devise no punishment for him more torturous than that created by
his own inescapable guilt. I vote yes to parole.
JUDAS:
No! I'm guilty! Don’t you understand? I must be punished.
ALBERT:
Soren?
SOREN:
He has already been forgiven by the One he offended. It's not our place to
punish him. I vote yes to parole.
JUDAS (leaps to his feet):
No!
FYODOR (to SOREN):
You call yourself a Christian? Why don't you free the Devil himself?
SOREN:
If he repented of his sins and made peace with his Maker, I would. Gladly.
FYODOR:
Traitor! Blasphemer!
ALBERT:
Gentlemen, enough. The vote was fair. Three to one - Judas is paroled.
FYODOR:
Bastards! The Devil take you all! You stacked the cards against me, but
your names will be cursed by true believers till the next millenium. You
won't have a moment's peace by the time I get through with you. (Exits
while cursing.)
ALBERT (waits for commotion to die down):
Not that it matters, Jude, but my vote would have been for parole also.
Congratulations.
JUDAS:
You don't understand. I'm guilty of my crimes. I never asked for a second
chance. I accept my punishment.
ALBERT:
Now it's time to accept your forgiveness.
JUDAS:
No. It's not possible. I don't want your parole.
JEAN-PAUL:
We are all condemned to face our freedom sooner or later. (Preparing to
leave.) Come join us at the Eternal Cafe. We'll face the nausea of reality
together.
FRIEDRICH:
Until the shadow of God vanishes and we with it.
JEAN-PAUL:
Your denial of the situation shows bad faith, Friedrich. We were premature
in proclaiming God's death.
FRIEDRICH:
Mankind created God and will one day succeed in killing him.
ALBERT:
Accept the limits of your fate, Friedrich. We were wrong about this whole
afterlife concept. Cie la vie. (Follows JEAN-PAUL and FRIEDRICH as they
prepare to exit.) You forget. We have other cases to hear.
JEAN-PAUL:
Not till Fyodor recovers from his righteous rage. Until then, I do my best
thinking in the Cafe.
ALBERT:
Well, perhaps we have time for one drink. (To JEAN-PAUL: ) Don't worry - I
won't invade your territory. (To Judas as the group begins to exit.) The
world no longer requires your guilt, Jude. Forgive yourself and move on to
the next level.
JUDAS shakes his head.
ALBERT:
I wonder if Sisyphus would have been so loyal to his rock. Hmmm: something to
ponder. (Holds out his hand to JUDAS.) Good luck. I'll miss seeing you at
the Cafe. Perhaps in a few decades I'll be able to join you.
JEAN-PAUL, FRIEDRICH and ALBERT exit.
JUDAS:
Has the Universe gone mad? Has the Demon himself been loosed from Below?
SOREN:
The world is diseased, but there is hope still. Always hope. (Takes Judas'
arm.) Come. I'll walk with you to the Bridge to Above. He'll be waiting for
you.
JUDAS:
Waiting for me. With love and forgiveness. No. (Returns to his chair.) I'll
appeal the Board's decision. I'll hire the best lawyers. I'll make you see
reason.
SOREN:
I only see the fear and trembling of one fighting a relationship with the
Divine. (Lays his hand on JUDAS' shoulder.) I wish you peace.
JUDAS:
Not for me. No. Never.
SOREN shakes his head sadly, exits.
JUDAS lays his head on the table in despair.
Lights dim. End.

KLAUS J. GERKEN
Fragment from a Lost Poem
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am the solid ghost of yesteryear
If only I could bring good cheer
My friends say: You are so severe
I answer them with aching heart
"It's not death, but life I fear"
But you are living: can't just fall apart?
I say: But death is just a state of mind
Living has to be an art...

A New Age: The Centipede Network Of
Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul
Lauda

Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established
just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A
place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and
learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
Even a chance to be published in a magazine.
The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993.
Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such
an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon
started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin
Board Systems.
We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
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Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
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Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede

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